THE PUBLIC SHELF
For your wedding morning
Today you marry someone who laughs at your jokes, which is rare, and I'm saying that as someone who has heard every one of your jokes since you could talk.
I remember holding you the morning you were born. You had my nose and your grandfather's temper, and you screamed at the nurse like she'd personally insulted you. You grew out of the temper. You did not grow out of the nose. Sorry about that.
I want to tell you something my father never told me, and I wish he had.
Marriage isn't the wedding. The wedding is one beautiful day. Marriage is ten thousand ordinary ones. It's who takes the trash out. It's choosing to be curious instead of right during the argument about the thermostat. It's noticing when she's tired before she has to say it. It's saying thank you for the small things, every single time, even after thirty years.
Your mother and I didn't always get it right. But we got it right enough, and we kept choosing each other, and that's most of it.
Be patient with each other. Laugh a lot. Apologize first, even when you're only half wrong.
And dance badly tonight. Really badly. I'll be right there next to you, embarrassing you one last time as your only family.
Love, Dad
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